The Interview
by moonmaid
Summary: Lex has memories on tape.


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Title: The Interview

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Author: Not An Addict  
**Rating:** PG-13 for language  
**Category:** Angst/Drama

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Pairing: Chloe/Lex,   
**Spoilers:** Kinetic, Jitters  
**Summary:** Lex has memories on tape. 

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Disclaimer: The voices in my head say I own them. The voices in my head also say I can fly and breathe underwater. The voices in my head are not to be trusted.  
**Author's Note:** WHERE DID THIS COME FROM??????? Out, out damn angst!!!!!! No, seriously, I have NO idea where this came from. I'm sorry. I've given Chloe the middle name Anne because, um, well, really just because I like it. Feedback . . . yes, please. This is definitely a change from my usual style, and I'd like to know what you guys think.

The Interview

The grainy background of the tape crackles in the enclosed air, filling the back of the limo with sounds of the past. For tonight, nothing about the present or the future is important. Superman can wait, business is irrelevant. All that matters is her voice, rolling out over the background noise.

"Well, here we are in the Luthor ancestral home, back in the library once again for a second shot at an interview. I saw you had the glass fixed. I don't suppose you've increased security at all, have you?"

A wry chuckle.

"Don't worry, I won't let you fall through any windows this time."

"Good to know. Now, Mr. Luthor, are you going to tell us what really went on in Level Three?"

"As my father and I have told every other member of the press, Ms. Sullivan, the area referred to as 'Level Three' was nothing more than a redundant storage facility."

"I know what you've told every other member of the press, Lex; I asked what really went on, not what story you're feeding everyone. And are you going to fill me in on why you're smirking at me like that?"

"You called me Lex. What makes you think that I'm 'feeding' you a story that's not true, Chloe?"

She sounds significantly less amused than he is.

"Earl Jenkins."

"Earl Jenkins is a very sick man."

"A sick man who claims his illness was caused by exposure to crop experiments on Level Three."

There's tension in his voice now, the restrained irritation that is all he ever allows himself to show.

"As I've told you before, Ms. Sullivan, I had no idea Level Three even existed until Mr. Jenkins broke into my plant demanding to be taken there. When are you going to believe what I'm telling you?"

Her irritation is not nearly as restrained.

"When you stop stonewalling me, Lex. God, you were the one who suggested this in the first place. Why even bother if you're just going to feed me the same bullshit all over again? I think our interview is over."

Angry, rustling sounds as she stuffs her notebook into her bag.

His voice is closer now; he's come around the desk to stand in front of her.

"Chloe . . . Chloe, don't leave."

She still sounds angry.

"Give me one good reason why n—"

Her words come to a sudden stop; there is a long pause. Her voice sounds again, breathless.

"You kissed me."

He is as out of breath as she is.

"Observant girl." Another pause, and he sounds shocked, remorseful. "Chloe, I'm sorry. I shouldn't h—"

This time his is the voice that cuts off. Soft sounds echo through the air; indecipherable, but he knows what they are anyway. A small moan. The sound of fingers scrambling over the recorder's metal buttons. Her voice, ripe with amusement and passion.

"We don't really want this recorded for posterity."

His voice, full of desire but light with teasing.

"Oh, I don't know. It's something we might want to look int—"

The crackling sounds louder with the absence of other noise—she's finally found the stop button. But he's had the two tapes spliced together, and after a short space the click of a button is heard again. A pause, and her amused and exasperated voice sounds over the faint static, pouring into his head as the darkened fields roll by outside his window.

"Mr. Luthor, do you think you can keep your hands off of your girlfriend for a few more minutes so that we can finally finish this interview?"

"No, Ms. Sullivan, I really don't think that's possible."

"Lex," her voice starts to warn, but is cut of by a sudden gasp.

A smothered moan and the sound of gently creaking leather. 

A murmur too soft to be picked up by the tape recorder.

"I will _not_ forget about the interview! We've already tried to do this twice with no success." Another murmur. "You're impossible." She's serious, but there's laughter in her voice, louder now as she reaches for the recorder. That's it, I'm going to have to—"

There is a miniscule bit of nothingness, then her voice again, more composed.

"All right, now that we have you behind your desk where you can't cause any more trouble, we'll continue."

His voice is low, husky.

"I don't know, Chloe. You remember what happened the last time you got me behind this desk." A soft chuckle, then his voice filled with mock disbelief. "Chloe Sullivan speechless? Maybe I should call the rest of the press corps. Just as well, though—now I can ask you my question before we get started."

Teasing in her voice now.

"I thought _I_ was supposed to be the intrepid reporter here."

"Humor me."

A creaking of his chair as he stood. Little noise as he moved around the desk. Then a faint shuffling, and a female gasp. Her voice is shaky, uncertain.

"Lex?"

"I love you. I know this might seem sudden, but it's all I've been able to think about for years now. Chloe Anne Sullivan . . . will you be my wife?"

A choked sob.

"Are you sure?"

"As sure as I've ever been about anything, and as sure as I ever will be for the rest of my life." A pause, and he can still feel the nervous knots that had been tied in his stomach. "What do you think?"

Her smile is in her voice.

"I think we're going to have to finish up with a fourth interview. Now are you going to put that ring on my finger or not?" 

A shout of joyous laughter, soon changing to gasping breaths. Then the click of a button, and it's the end. 

The door opening startles him slightly, but he composes himself and gathers the lilies on the seat beside him before stepping out into the cold Kansas night. His shoes crunch over the snow and his breath fogs the air in front of him, but he can't feel the chill. He hasn't felt the cold in years, not since his heart froze and the blood in his veins fled in place of ice. Not since his heat was taken from him.

There had been no fourth interview. 

Two nights on a tape are all he has left of her now, her voice only a dim reflection of what she had been. Her voice holds no more heat for him now than a picture of fire would for someone with frostbite. 

But a picture of a fire is better than none at all.

He lays the lilies on the snow before the polished marble headstone. His fingers, encased in black leather gloves, trace the word beneath the dates of her life.

'Beloved.'

He straightens slowly, turns and walks to his limousine without looking back. The present has intruded long enough. 

Tonight, he lives in the past.


End file.
